by Karleen Koen
“What do I tell Elizabeth?”
“The truth, if you dare.”
Richard smiled at the thought of his sister’s response to the news her mother had refused a bedchamber in her elegant new town house in the new St. James’s Square near the palace to sleep in the king’s mews with Richard’s horse.
“I’ll be taking Alice to Tamworth,” his mother said.
Richard felt something in his heart move. He walked back out under the stars and looked up at them as his mother had done. Thank you, he told them and what was behind them, silently. Alice would heal at Tamworth. Everything did.
CHAPTER 42
Queen Catherine sat still as her tiring woman combed out her hair. What is it that you want? Lady Saylor had asked. Honor to my position. Children. Love. Affection. Security. Loyalty. Admiration. Everything. Which of those have you any hope of achieving? Affection. Security. Honor to my position. He will give me that; he always does if I let him do as he pleases. “Go to the Keroualle,” she told Lord Knollys, “and inform the queen, she calls. This afternoon.”
She walked into her withdrawing chamber as, haloed by morning light, Edward took the covers from the canary cages. The birds began to trill and warble. She put a hand against the metal of a cage. Several of them fluttered close, flirted with her. She clucked to them, made cooing sounds. She had come to him trained to love, to obey, and she did both. He liked her, was even fond of her upon occasion. They had laughed together in bed. He had made her trill with passion. She had confused zestful duty with love. But he could not be in love with her. She was not beautiful enough, not English enough, not French enough, not enough enough. She had wanted to bear a child of his, a lusty, long-legged, black-haired boy as he must have been, full of life, naughty. Whitehall was her cage, and there would always be another Renée.
Why do the canaries sing? Lady Saylor had asked. They know no better, she had answered. I believe they do, Lady Saylor had said.
That afternoon, her entourage of ladies surrounding her, she walked down the corridors and through hallways to that part of the palace in which Renée now resided. Heels clicked on the wood of the floors. Gowns made swishing sounds. Her maids—so decimated now, so sad with Alice and Barbara and Gracen gone—laughed and chattered, excited, like children with a special treat promised. Even their demeanor was different, brighter, excited, hopeful. Her isolation had affected them. She darted in like the bird she resembled. Renée was in a curtsy, Lady Arlington with her. Queen Catherine met Lady Arlington’s eyes; she had moved to where the power lay. It was the nature of a courtier to follow power, just as it was the nature of a bird to sing.
“I am so honored that you visit me.” Renée was sincere, nothing ironic in her voice, her English softly accented, precisely correct. She meant her words. The other mistress, the monster Cleveland, had never been humble, or kind, or excited to receive her. To be accepted by the queen meant something to this one. That would be useful.
“I am have the curiosity to see where you are the live.” The sound of workmen hammering, talking, could be heard through closed doors on another wall. “And I am the bring a small gift, a—how do you say it?”
“Housewarming,” said Frances.
The queen lifted a kitten out of the basket Frances held, and Renée took it, lifted it high. “I adore cats. Thank you, Your Majesty.”
Charles did not. “You are the welcomed.”
“May I show you my chambers?”
“Please.”
And they walked through several rooms farther on, workmen carefully, with mallets and wooden pegs, joining carvings for oval ceiling surrounds and door moldings. Furniture was covered in sheeting. Queen Catherine lifted a sheet. Lustrous fabric, its embroidery stiff and handsome, graced a chair.
“Yellow is my favorite color,” Renée said.
Queen Catherine felt rage surge up. Blue-eyed whore. How dare he give you these chambers! How dare he spare no expense that you might furnish them! How dare he be he! But that was a hole into which it was best not to fall, at least not now.
“How is dear Mrs. Brownwell?” Renée asked. They were seated again in her presence chamber, and a servant was passing around crackers, small cakes, goblets of wine.
“With her brother. Better to be.” Queen Catherine looked toward Lord Knollys, who dropped his eyes. Dorothy had left the court the day after the funeral, after the sight of Lord Knollys and his young wife entering the church together.
“It’s all been so shocking,” said Lady Arlington, placid, the way people are when shocking things have not touched them.
“And Mistress Verney?”
“Better.”
Queen Catherine looked around. “Charming. Many windows. Much light. You are having a good view of garden.” She’d always liked this side of the palace.
“Will you—would you think of gracing them with your presence tonight?”
She most certainly would. She was not going to sit alone and abandoned in her apartments for one more evening. They could crucify her as they did the Christ; they could whip her with scourges; they could savage her in every street ballad—but she was the queen. “Yes.”
Mission executed, Queen Catherine stood, and there were curtsies all around, Luce and Kit kissing Renée’s cheeks, laughing and chattering behind the queen as they walked back to their part of the palace, deeper in, darker, its view the Thames River, its windows smaller because it was older, its furnishings not sparkling and new, not the latest fashion from France.
“Crimson and diamonds tonight,” Queen Catherine told her tiring woman later.
Frances took up a book she’d been reading to Her Majesty, began. Queen Catherine closed her eyes. After a time, thinking the queen asleep, Frances stopped reading, her expression unhappy. The queen watched her through slitted eyes. She could have taken Frances’s hand, patted it, said in the mangled English that never quite expressed what she thought, You would like me to remain prideful. Do you think I can stay the rest of my days here, seeing no one, being visited by no one, under the cover of my cage, never seeing the sun? I cannot.
THAT EVENING, THERE was an air of bubbling excitement in the queen’s apartments as women waited for Queen Catherine to be finished dressing. They laughed and talked, whispering among themselves, straightening one another’s sleeves or trying on one another’s bracelets, so glad to be going to where King Charles would be, where courtiers would be, where the life and pulse of court would be. Pearls for the maids of honor, diamonds and rubies for the queen, diamonds for her ladies-in-waiting. Frances, Duchess of Richmond, looked particularly stunning. Queen Catherine smiled when she saw her. So, she thought, dressed for battle. To remind him of what he never obtained. He will be compelled to flirt. Little Keroualle will be jealous. I will be amused. Edward and the other pages punched one another’s arms in impatience to be on their way. Captain Saylor, with six guards, stood ready to escort.
Queen Catherine took a breath. Once she walked through these doors, there was no going back. One more time, she thought. I survived the Duchess of Cleveland; I survived those years of his dallying with our lovely Frances, standing here beside us now, a haunted look in her eyes in spite of her diamonds and gold ringlets brushed to shining. Poor thing. It’s her first time. A certain grim amusement welled up. Queen Catherine nodded to Richard, and he opened the great doors that led to the other side of the palace.
They trooped down the corridors, the long hallways. It was dusk. Servants and pages were lighting torches in courtyards and candles in chambers, along the hallways. Whitehall was always beautiful by candlelight, her age softened, her odd rambling turned charming with darkness to drape it. Chambers they passed were in that half-shadow of earliest evening. Gold and silver candlesticks gleamed from tabletops. Courtiers, dressed for supper, for their night ahead, came to their doors to curtsy or bow. Already the word had spread. There was to be a truce between the king and queen and the one who would be the next great mistress.
Music fr
om Renée’s chamber spilled out her doors, meeting them in the hall. Edward proudly announced the queen, and silence fell. There was a full crowd here, His Majesty, a few of his ministers—Balmoral among them—but mostly his favorites, his night companions, his howlers at the moon, Sedley and Rochester, the others who amused him, and ladies, clever wives already attaching themselves to Renée as the next official mistress, one they might receive in their homes, unlike his actresses or whores. Queen Catherine glanced around. The Duchess of Cleveland was not present. Satisfaction in that. What if she, his ugly little queen, outlasted them all?
These chambers were charming. The way candles and flowers were placed, crowded everywhere, among all the splendid objects, gold clocks, enameled vases, porcelain figurines, atop tables, atop the mantels of fireplaces. There was nothing stern in this chamber, nothing austere, from its sunny yellow walls to the cream color of the wood surrounding door and ceilings, to the objects everywhere. Servants were walking among the crowd to offer wine. A long table against a wall held towers of fruit, tarts, tiny pies, amid figures of marzipan and sugar paste. A large sugar-paste swan was in the center, roses in his mouth. This was what her lord craved, sophistication, elegance, style, and, above all, new amusement.
Sapphires at her ears and throat, Renée had dropped into a curtsy at the announcement of the queen. All the women did the same. Men bowed. King Charles walked forward and kissed Queen Catherine on each cheek, pleased that she pleased his heart’s desire by coming to her party. “I am so very glad to see you.”
“Yes,” she answered.
“I’ve missed you.”
“Liar.”
He liked her tartness, tucked her arm in his and walked her toward the buffet. “Cousin Louis does this for his evenings in France, I’m told.”
Queen Catherine noted royal silver pieces displayed on the table, nodded toward a tapestry hanging large above the long table. “The Gobelins?”
“It was stored away, gathering dust,” he said offhandedly. He patted her hand, and she shut her mouth on complaints. There would be spillover from his generosity to Renée; if she was quiet, he would soon feel guilty. She’d have new furnishings, too. She intended to spend a pretty penny.
Seeing the king’s approval, courtiers pressed forward to have a word with the queen while she was still on the king’s arm. Frances, who had gone to sit beside Balmoral to ask of Alice, sighed at the sight of it.
Balmoral noticed, but all he said was, “Must Captain Saylor scowl so?”
“It hurts him to see Renée.”
“He’d best get over it.”
“Do we forget true love?”
“Yes, we do.”
“How is Mrs. Brownwell?” King Charles asked Queen Catherine. Now that she had acquiesced, accepted what was, he wished to know everything about her household.
Queen Catherine turned dark eyes on him. “Not well.”
“Knollys is a dog.”
It takes one to know one. “She goes for to live with the brother. I am having the thought, an allowance, yes…” She let the sentence drift off.
“Ten guineas?”
She opened her fan. “Seventy-five.”
“Twenty.”
“Sixty-five.”
“Fifty.”
“Done.”
“Your English is always most excellent around numbers, Catherine.”
She kissed him on the mouth, a gesture missed by no one. “My lord and master, so well you have know me.”
“I have hoped that we might be friends,” Renée said to Richard. She was nervous, twisting her hands together.
Richard bowed, the gesture as stiff as his expresssion. “I am your servant in all things.” He looked around the room, its profusion of objects, paintings, rich fabrics, the crowd admiring, envious, ready to serve her. This he could never give her. Frowning, he watched his sister flirting with Monmouth. What was this? Did the royal family think they might bugger all the Saylors? One was enough. King Charles crossed the chamber, stood behind Renée, as Richard made a deep bow.
“The queen is ready to play cards,” King Charles said to Renée. His eyes followed her as she went to order servants to set up tables. He cares for her, thought Richard, watching the king with wary, weary anger. Then, in spite of himself, his eyes, too, followed Renée. She was resplendent. The depth of his heartache, which he knew, explored whether he wished it or not each night before sleep, surprised him afresh. Are they lovers yet? he thought. No. It would have been an open secret if they were. Perhaps he would be in France when that gossip made its rounds. That would be a good thing. Turning back to the king, he saw that King Charles, in turn, contemplated him.
“Am I safe in my bed yet, Saylor?” The king’s smile did not reach his eyes.
“You are my liege lord. I would protect you with my life.”
The way in which Richard spoke, grave, resolute, was not in fashion at this court. King Charles blinked. He could remember being this serious, swearing loyalty to his father before a battle, ready to die for this liege lord who was also father. He’d been pure of heart then, the way Richard was now. It was a treasured memory. “I’ve never rewarded you for your capture of Henri Ange.”
Richard laughed. The sound made King Charles smile. “Alice Verney stabbed him. It’s she who should be rewarded—captain of your guard, perhaps?”
“She should be captain of something. Between you and me, I pity Balmoral. She’ll put him in his grave for certain.”
Alice as widow, thought Richard. There was something interesting in that.
King Charles moved on, and Richard could hear Alice say, Idiot, he gave you an opening to ask for what you wish. But Richard didn’t desire King Charles’s blessing. He didn’t want the royal seal upon his backside for services rendered. He was going to General Turenne in his own way.
CHAPTER 43
Alice’s face was as white as the lace on the pillowcase under her head.
“Mind you don’t jolt her too much!” Sir Thomas fluttered and fussed, had been doing so all morning, and all the servants’ nerves were stretched to the breaking point, but Perryman and a footman managed to place Alice on the board that had been set across the seats in Balmoral’s best and newest carriage. A goose-feather pallet lay across the board, and covers and pillows swaddled it. Poll crawled in and fluffed pillows as Alice closed her eyes.
“Now, mind you drive carefully! There isn’t a decent road between here and there.” Sir Thomas glanced toward Balmoral. “Have you thought of that? She’ll be jolted to death.”
“I’ve given her a draft that will let her sleep the journey,” Jerusalem answered.
“Pull down those leather shades,” Sir Thomas commanded Poll, “lest the air give her a chill. Has she enough coverlets?” As Sir Thomas circled the carriage, looking for yet another fault or lack, Richard hoisted Jerusalem into her saddle, then mounted his own horse. A caravan was on its way to Tamworth—he was commanding a troop of six men Balmoral was sending for protection, as well as the two carriages, one Balmoral’s and the other Jerusalem’s. The second carriage contained young Nan Daniell, whom Jerusalem had talked into coming to Tamworth as a serving maid. With her was her child.
Balmoral opened the carriage door, possessed himself of Alice’s hand, and kissed it. “Be well. You see you make her well,” he commanded Jerusalem.
“But of course I will. You’ll be watching her dance at her wedding in a month.”
“I’d better be.”
“Best to be off,” Richard said, “before the sun goes much higher.” He saluted Balmoral and rode forward to divide the men into two groups, one riding before the carriages, the other behind.
AS DUSK FELL, they made camp in a meadow just off the road. Troopers built a fire, while Richard rode in a wide circle around their camp, taking the lay of the land, finding a farmhouse. He came back with pullets hanging from his saddle and jars of ale and honey mead in his bags.
That night, he stepped over sleeping men h
ere and there to make his way to Balmoral’s carriage. His mother had had Poll open all the shades to the night air. Poll lay sleeping under the carriage, where his mother would sleep when she came to bed. Where was she? And then he saw her, in the meadow, a solitary figure standing quite still under a full April moon, its silvery light as direct as a lantern. He saw Alice through the carriage window. Her eyes were open.
“Do you see the stars?” he asked her.
“Yes.” Her voice was a thread.
“Are you warm enough?”
“Yes,” she whispered. “I’m fretted for your sister. Monmouth—”
“Never mind Monmouth. I’ll care for my sister.”
“Don’t wait too long,” It took all her strength to speak. There was so much more she wished to say. “Where am I, Richard? I don’t understand.”
“You’re going to Tamworth.” The thought of it rose in his mind, the house, its brick, its twisted chimney stacks, its gables, its garden with a maze from a pattern of the old queen. The stream, the woods, the lane to the village, the fishpond, his mother’s kitchen garden where in summer herbs scented the day and night. Tamworth, where his boyhood mostly was, where his father lay in a family vault in the village church, and his grandfather, also. Rooms with the dark paneling and carving of the fashion of the Tudors, odd hallways, crooked stairs, a great hall. Tamworth, peace of heart, quiet of soul. Tamworth, backwater, old-fashioned, forgotten by time, haven and home. Where he had thought to bring Renée as bride. Funny how standing here with Alice softened all that.
THEY ARRIVED THE next day.
“No,” said Richard, “I’ll carry her.”
He lifted her out of the carriage, shocked at how light she was. Alice leaned her head against his shoulder. He carried her in under the porch, into the great hall, which opened high and wide and echoing.
“I want her here,” said his mother, moving to a door that led to a parlor on the ground floor. Great swaths of sunlight cut across the dark of the floor from the mullioned windows across one wall. Jerusalem began to push out the lower windows and open them one by one.